Bound for Home
by blackmare
Summary: A continuation of Down to the Water. About five days later, on the road back, Wilson takes an unexpected direction.


_**This is a brief continuation of my earlier story, Down to the Water. **Thanks to **KidsNurse** for the spark that brought this to life.  
_

_**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to David Shore, FOX, and many others who aren't me. I'm making no money on them and will put them back when I'm done._

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They're heading north into Richmond now, seventy miles an hour on I-95, the evening sun dropping gently in the west. How he's made it this far, House isn't sure. They've been trading off driving, but that doesn't mean it's been easy.

To keep his head clear while at the wheel, House has cut back on the pills, and his head and his leg are both giving him hell for that.

"Take this exit," says Wilson, so quietly that House barely hears him over the rush of wind and engine. "Trust me. Left turn."

House trusts him. He always does, even when he's sure it's a bad idea, even when experience should tell him otherwise. This time, none of those warning lights are on; he guesses that Wilson the Mighty Hunter is hungry and has some idea about food.

Sure enough, a few blocks off the freeway, Wilson nods toward a big brown building. The sign out front reads _Border Chophouse & Bar_.

"I'm buying," Wilson says. His tone leaves no space for argument, and House feels a spark like there's a loose connection somewhere in his chest. How strange is it that he almost protests this? He shakes his head, as if he's waking from some nonsensical dream.

"Okay." Where this is going, House can't tell. Even in the driver's seat he seems to be along for the ride. He finds a nice, close parking space -- the handicapped spot, the one pitiful perk of his condition -- turns off the engine and waits.

Wilson doesn't move. "It wasn't your fault, House."

"Yes, it was."

"Don't be a moron. You're not God. You couldn't have known. You didn't _cause_ the garbage truck driver to have a heart attack."

"I was out getting drunk on a Tuesday afternoon."

"I repeat: don't be a moron."

"Too late. The deadline for not being a moron was about an hour before I called you."

"I know you'd like to believe you were to blame, because ... because you want to think you can control things, but this is life. You didn't kill her. She --"

Wilson's face has suddenly scrunched up in that way it does when he's cracking apart on the inside and trying to press the pieces back into place. "Let's just get dinner," he says, taking a breath that seems to restore his rumpled features.

"No. Why the sudden switcheroo?" House may not have killed her, but she'd still be alive if it weren't for him, and he'd rather Wilson didn't pretend otherwise.

"I never said it was your fault." Wilson won't look at him; dark eyes stare into dark restaurant windows, straight ahead. "I said I was angry at you. There ... is a difference."

"And you're telling _me_ not to be a moron?"

"I'm telling you to wait your turn. I'm not done being an idiot yet, and one of us ... one of us has to drive."

"Wilson ..."

"I need you." He's looking at House, finally. "And ... a steak, and at least two stiff drinks." He gets out of the car, shuts the door a little more firmly than he has to. "Coming?"

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* * *

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He had wanted something he could taste, really _taste_, after too much seafood and too many meals missed entirely. Wilson still wonders how he can do this thing -- how he can eat and drink, how he can live, watching the sun set outside the windows and knowing that the shadows are falling in the graveyard, too.

There's a soft _thoop_ from across the table, and a straw-paper flicks like a moth against his cheek. House makes no attempt to look innocent. "Pay attention," he says, pausing to sip the Coke he ordered. "You have to drink for both of us. You know, since the coach had to put me on the bench this season." He hands Wilson a leather folder with a list of Scotch and Irish whiskeys. "Since you're buying, I'll have the Talisker. Meaning, you'll have it. You lucky bastard."

"I'd debate the 'lucky' part."

They get no further in that conversation, because their server arrives.

The rest of the evening is ... strange. There are moments when it's almost like being on an exam table; moments when he fully expects House to whip out a penlight and shine it right in his eyes.

"We don't seem to have much to say," Wilson notes, after several minutes of House's silent eating and observing.

"We don't. You do. You're just not."

"You've never wanted to hear it."

"You want to talk about her? Then do it. Keep drinking, if that helps. If I really can't stand the agony, I've got pills for that."

"Would you believe," Wilson begins, quietly, as he cuts another piece of the best steak he's had in ages, "she didn't much care for red meat?"

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* * *

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Wilson's fingers are pleasantly numb. He's just as drunk as he wanted to be; he signs the check and, from this Scotch-insulated distance, considers what has happened to House. He seemed, if not happier, much better-adjusted when he thought Wilson actually blamed him.

They sit there in the dim light, surrounded by clinking glasses and murmuring, laughing diners, warm and cozy and all at loose ends.

Wilson had expected this. Forgiveness unbalances House, like being handed a gift made of gold, too heavy to carry. He goes lopsided, staggers in circles, drops the thing on his foot. _Must hurt_, Wilson muses. As if on cue, House shakes another pill into his hand.

When they finally leave the restaurant, neither one is particularly steady on his feet.

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* * *

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"Hilton," they remark in unison, looking across the parking lot to the welcoming, well-lit building next door.

"Not Paris," Wilson adds.

"Thank God."

"I'm ... not sober."

"Don't look at me. Zonked on pain meds _and_ my head is broken. Or so I'm told."

"Think they've ... got valets?"

"Shut up and walk."

"You first, Gimpy."

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* * *

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With that part of his mind that's detached from all this, House watches the two of them pick their careful way over a curb, through the grass, past cars, sidewalks, into the Hilton lobby.

The receptionist thinks they're ... who knows what she thinks. Her comical stare makes House lean a little harder on Wilson, who leans on the counter in turn.

"I'll take the ... best room you've got," Wilson says, with that careful slow speech he uses when he's drunk off his ass and trying not to be too obvious. His credit card and license click softly on the counter. "Um. As long as it isn't the, uh, honeymoon thing."

Receptionist Girl looks at House like he's a lunatic, but that's probably because of the way he's laughing.

"Get off me, you dope." Wilson shoves; House almost falls over but catches himself, with less grace than he'd prefer, on the marble counter top. It's a great vantage point for the show: Wilson clumsily explaining about the red Corvette next door, digging in House's pocket for the keys when House doesn't hand them over on cue. The paperwork is a boring denouement. House begins folding a brochure into a paper airplane, but then the room -- or is that just Wilson? -- starts to move away from him.

"Seven twenny-one," murmurs Wilson, whose speech is becoming less clear by the minute. The Scotch must have been lying in wait for him. Now that they're moving, the renewed circulation is spreading the intoxicant to Wilson's brain. Good thing; that brain has been running too fast, way too many RPMs. Something needs to slow it down before it overheats.

"Scotch," House says, as they step into the elevator, "is the only thing stopping you from blowing a head gasket."

"You're ... weird." Wilson's unsteady finger pokes at the seventh-floor button. The first shot misses, so he pokes again. "But ... okay."

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* * *

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The elevator opens beside room seven-seventy-four. Ahead of them, the hall stretches out like a highway of its own, paved in that standard hotel-corridor carpet.

"The green mile," Wilson quips, blinking drunkenly at the sight. His coordination has continued to deteriorate.

"Still seeing only one of everything?" House steps out of the elevator, lurching when the edge of his sole grabs the tracks of the doors. His shoulder hits something solid -- but moving -- as he lists to the left.

"Careful." Wilson snorts at him, "Dope fiend." There's an unexpected weight, pressing against House's side.

"Lush." House leans into the weight. It's just like being in the halls at the hospital, except for being wasted and a couple inches closer to Wilson. "C'mon."

They wobble onward, Wilson pointing the way with his shiny plastic key-card.

"You'd be at home with her, if it wasn't for me."

"House?"

"Mm?"

"Shut up. Jus' ... shut up."

"Gonna have to deal with it sometime."

"_Am_ dealin'." Wilson stops his listing walk, grabs House's arm, points that earnest blinking stare into House's eyes. "This is me, deal -- dealing."

"Wilson --"

"I know. You're sorry. You're ... you're a moron. Wasn' ..." he lurches toward the door of seven-twenty-one, bracing himself against House, fairly dragging him along. "Wasn' your fault, and I'm still pissed. Shut up now?"

He fumbles with the key card and House lets him. By the time they get into the room, they've got an arm around each other's shoulders, moving slowly, anger and fear shoved aside for a while by something more important.

If anyone asked, House thinks, he would say they just needed one another for balance.


End file.
